The Door to Bitterness (21 page)

17

ing, as were the Korean business girls, and then Suk-ja was almost naked and dodging grasping hands. Finally, the song ended, and she was off the stage. Twenty minutes later, the Suk-ja I had known at the Yellow House, in blue jeans, ponytail, and horn-rimmed glasses, sat next to me on a barstool.

We had a few more drinks.

Drunkenly, Ernie kept telling me not to blame myself. But the more he said that, the worse I felt.

Suk-ja ordered another plate of yakimandu. Using her polished fingernails, she raised a dumpling, dipped it in soy sauce, and popped it in my mouth. This time I ate.

* * *

I sat up in bed.

I was on a soft mat, and I could feel the heated floor beneath. A window was slightly open. An almost full moon shone. A soft hand touched my shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Geogi?”

It was Suk-ja. We’d left the Seven Club together right before the midnight curfew and rented this room in the Seven Star Yoguan, a Korean inn.

“Miss Yun,” I said.

“Nugu?” Who?

“Miss Yun. The woman who is the mother of the man who executed Specialist Fairbanks. And the man who murdered Jo Kyong-ah, and the same man who shot Han Ok-hi.

They kicked her out of her home.”

Suk-ja sat up. Her soft body was naked.

“What?” she asked. “Who did?”

“A mama-san up in Uichon told me. Miss Yun had two children, both half-Miguk. One a boy, one a girl. She caught tuberculosis, so they made her leave her home.”

“She was a business girl?”

“Yes.”

I told her the story.

The order for Miss Yun to be separated from her children and placed in a sanitarium had been executed maybe five years ago. The children were to be placed in an orphanage, possibly put up for adoption. Miss Yun fled the sanitarium. Somehow, she’d found her children and gone into hiding. A business woman without a home nightclub, where she could be registered with the authorities and receive regular health checkups, was reduced to avoiding the KNPs and walking the streets. With two children in tow, both just reaching adolescence themselves, she wasn’t making enough money. Predictably, she tried to borrow. But after a few loans without repayment, she was turned down everywhere.

Her tuberculosis became worse, yet she couldn’t go to a hospital. If she did, the authorities would be called, and she would be once again held as a risk to public health. Tuberculosis, small pox, venereal disease—these scourges had taken a terrible toll on Korean society during and after the Korean War. The government had no choice but to take draconian measures in an effort to curb their spread.

Miss Yun had remained on the street with her children until one cold winter night, she lay down on the frozen concrete and went to sleep. She never woke up.

Before dawn, her children tried to rouse her, to no avail. Her body was taken away, for reasons of public health, and burned. When the authorities tried to shuffle the kids off to orphanages, they escaped. When the smiling woman, the daughter of the late Miss Yun, showed up in Uichon asking for a job, she would not talk about the period after her mother’s death. She did, however, always keep a white box wrapped in black ribbon. The Uichon mama-san couldn’t be sure but she suspected that the box contained the ashes of the girl’s dead mother.

I explained all this to Suk-ja. She listened patiently. I also told her about the smiling woman’s sojourn at the Half Half Club north of Seoul near Uijongbu. How she’d been stalked there, and how she’d run away and hidden farther north with the Uichon mama-san. I wasn’t sure who was after her or how this tied in with everything else. When I finished, Suk-ja rolled off the sleeping mat and, crouching on her haunches, poured barley tea from a brass pot into an earthenware cup. She offered the cup to me. I drank.

Then she lit incense in a bronze burner. Three sticks. Tiny flames burning brightly. Suk-ja pressed her palms in front of her nose and bowed three times to each red pinpoint of light. Miss Yun, her daughter and son. When she was finished, Suk-ja, one by one, snuffed them out.

* * *

The Chief Medical Officer of the 121 Evacuation Hospital was not happy to see two CID agents rummaging through the records of his Communicable Disease Unit.

“You are to remove nothing,” he told us.

He was a portly man with a receding hairline, a gray mustache, and a white lab coat that failed to hide his paunch. Physically, not very impressive. What was impressive, at least to soldiers, were the silver eagles pinned to his collar.

“Yes, sir,” I answered. “Only notes. That’s all we’ll be taking.”

“See that you do. Before you leave, check out with Sergeant Whitworth, and I want to be briefed on whatever you find.”

“Of course, sir,” I said.

Fat chance. Eighth Army criminal investigation files are confidential, revealed only on a need-to-know basis. This pompous colonel wouldn’t have a need to know unless we said he had a need to know. But no sense yanking his chain, so I just waited until he left.

“Asshole,” Ernie mumbled.

“Someday you’re going to say that too loud.”

He shrugged.

We continued to look through files. VD records. Huge canvas-covered logs with every infected GIs name, rank, serial number, and unit. What type of VD, where he was infected, how long ago the contact was, and who had infected him. Many of the entries were blank, because if a GI was promiscuous, and many of the repeat offenders were, he couldn’t quite be sure where or when or by whom he’d been infected. Ernie covered the most recent cases. After all, we couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that the son of Miss Yun had killed him. Possibly Spec 5 Fairbanks had been involved in some sort of nefarious activity that had resulted in his death. We had to check that. Still, I doubted Ernie would find anything.

So did he. After half an hour, Ernie grew antsy and decided to walk out in the front office and chat with Sergeant Whitworth. She was a leggy blond, and Ernie hadn’t been quite as lucky as I had been last night. He’d left the Seven Club alone.

Leftover fumes of bourbon and beer churned in my stomach and rose like hot air into my throat and nose. I had already taken four aspirin along with bicarbonate of soda, and I doubted that a cup of black coffee from the silver urn in the front office would help. My side was okay. It was healing nicely. No infection. That Greek sailor kept a clean knife. In a day or two, I’d pull the stitches out.

Outside the open door of the records office, white-smocked medics, nurses, and doctors paraded back and forth on their soft-soled shoes, hurrying to do the beneficial work of healers. They murmured and laughed and chortled, untroubled by visions of two children starving on the streets of Seoul while they watched their mother cough bloody guts onto a crystalline pile of ice.

I shoved such thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on my work.

I started with the records that ended two years ago. Why there? No particular reason, other than I had to start somewhere. And the Uichon mama-san had told me that she believed Miss Yun had died three or four years ago. But her memory could be wrong. Starting at two years ago, and working back from there, seemed safe.

I moved my finger name by name down the row of infected GIs, searching the columns to see where they’d been infected and by whom. Occasionally I slapped my cheek to keep alert, to avoid being mesmerized by the endless row of handwritten entries.

Most were in the hand of the late Specialist 5 Arthur Q. Fairbanks. He’d extended his one year tour time after time until, on the day he was shot, he had been in country almost five years.

This entire effort might be a waste of time. Possibly, if Miss Yun was involved with any of these GIs, they might not remember her name, or who it was that had infected them, or where they had met her. This would be particularly true once she was no longer working as an unpaid “entertainer” in a specific nightclub. A few of the entries said “streetwalker.” I paused at each and studied it, but the information told me nothing.

A few of the entries had a red asterisk by the name of the “contact,” the accused prostitute. I wasn’t sure what the asterisk meant, but I’d figure that out later if I needed to.

After two hours, I passed the four-year mark. That is, the entries were now older than four years before today’s date. As a reward to myself, I stood up and stretched and walked out to the front office.

Ernie sat on the edge of Sergeant Whitworth’s desk, playing with the sharpened pencils she had placed upright in a coffee mug. He said something and leaned toward her, making her laugh. They ignored me as I walked past. Out in the busy hallway, I followed the signs to the men’s latrine.

When I returned, Ernie and Sergeant Whitworth had disappeared.

I sat back down at my little desk, took a deep breath, and studied the thick clothbound ledgers again. I had only been working about ten minutes when I spotted it. The GIs name was Bombeck, Rufus R. His unit was the 501st Signal Battalion, and the point of contact was “streetwalker.” But penciled beneath the entry was the name Yoon. And next to that was another red asterisk.

Quickly I jotted down the information and folded the top corner of the ledger page. I continued to work, but after two hours, and going back in the records another year, I found no similar entry.

I walked back into the front office. Still no Sergeant Whitworth. And no Ernie. I poured myself some coffee and waited. When they finally returned, Whitworth’s immaculately white uniform was askew, her cheeks flushed red. Ernie grinned at me.

“Find anything?” he asked.

Whitworth scurried behind her desk and sat, immediately picking up the phone and making what must’ve been an extremely urgent phone call. While she chatted, I filled Ernie in.

“What the hell does the red asterisk mean?” he said.

I nodded toward Whitworth. When she’d finished her phone call, I asked her.

“Tuberculosis,” she answered.

I sat quietly while she explained that when a prostitute was known to have an active case of tuberculosis, and Fairbanks found out about it, he routinely notified the Korean health authorities. Then a pickup was arranged.

“What do you mean ‘a pickup?’”

“Four or five Korean health officials meet us here at the 121, and we convoy out to Itaewon, usually with the infected GI. He shows us where the woman lives, or at least where he had contact with her, and we take it from there. Usually, we find her, and the Koreans take her into custody.”

“So,” I said, “if a streetwalker with tuberculosis was picked up in Itaewon, Fairbanks would’ve been there to see her arrest. To see her being taken away.”

“Oh, yeah. He had some stories. People crying, children screaming. You know, the whole works.”

“By the way,” I asked, “do you miss him?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Honestly,” she said, “he was sort of a jerk.”

Ernie and me and Suk-ja sat at a low-backed booth in the first-floor coffee shop of the Hamilton Hotel in the heart of Itaewon. Ernie sipped ginseng tea. Suk-ja and I drank coffee. She ladled plenty of sugar and cream into hers. Mine was black. She grimaced every time I took a sip.

“Nomu jjia,” she said. Too sour.

I explained to them what I thought, so far, about the case.

“First, Boltworks, the smiling woman, and her brother are running around Itaewon bopping drunken GIs on the head and taking their money.” I sipped on my coffee, picturing the three of them in action. Then I set the coffee cup down. “But this can’t last long, because Captain Kim and his men have dealt with crooks like that countless times, and I think the smiling woman was smart enough to realize they had to try something new. So they decide to go for a big score. A casino. But how? How do you gain entry and the confidence of a casino manager—get close enough to the cashier cage so you can force your way to the money?”

“That’s where you came in,” Ernie said.

“Right. They drug me, bop me over the head in an alley, and take my identification, badge, and sidearm.”

Suk-ja looked as if the thought of me being hurt was causing her pain.

“So they rob The Olympos Hotel and Casino in Inchon,” I said. “But while the robbery is going down, the owner makes a break for the fire escape. Without thinking, Kong, the brother, pops off a round. A young female blackjack dealer steps in the way and takes a bullet that should’ve landed in the casino owner’s back.”

“Okay,” Ernie said. “I buy that. But why do you say ‘without thinking?’ This son of a bitch, Kong, is a cold-blooded killer.”

“All right. Scratch the ‘without thinking’ part. But as far as we know, at that moment he had never killed anyone before.”

“So he’s in deep kimchee,” Ernie said. “He takes the money and he and his sister run and hide.”

“Right. But how long is that going to last? The KNPs are all over the case. And when Han Ok-hi dies, he knows they’ll never stop coming after him. Maybe they don’t have any leads, maybe they won’t be able to track him down, because he left very little evidence at the crime scene.”

“Other than a bullet from your gun.”

“Yeah. Other than a round from my gun. But he knows that once he and his sister start spending the money, they’ll be caught.”